


There Are Only Two Cages

by zjofierose



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Laura Hale, Angst, Angst and Feels, Child Derek Hale, Child Stiles Stilinski, Death from Old Age, Eventual Happy Ending, Fights, Friends to Lovers, Listen: Derek Hale has come unstuck in time, M/M, Married Life, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-23 16:14:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15610095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose/pseuds/zjofierose
Summary: "There are only two cages, there are only two locksThe first is the body's, the last is the clock's"Derek has never been able to control when he goes, or for how long. Thankfully, there is one constant presence in his life.(It starts kinda slow but it goes somewhere, I promise. Please see the notes at the end for slightly spoilery warnings which provide further details about the tags if you have any concerns.)





	There Are Only Two Cages

Derek isn’t sure when is the first time it happens; probably it’s in infancy, it’s not like he’d remember, or have recognized what was going on.  The episodes are rare when he’s little - maybe once or twice a year - and it takes several of them before he figures out that something is different for him, that they don’t happen to everyone.

By the time he’s halfway through grade school he learns to stop talking about it. His stories of the things he saw and the people he met used to make his mother laugh, but when he’s eight it happens twice in as many months, and he can see the concern seeping into his parents’ eyes as he tells them about the top hats on the men in town today, and how they dressed, and all the ways the buildings along Main Street were different. He tries to backpedal and laugh it off, but a week later he’s meeting with the school counselor and being asked about the stories he likes to tell. He can see her making notes that say things like “under stimulated” and “over-active imagination.”

His homework doubles.

\--

He meets Czcibór for the first time when he’s four. 

He’s wandered off from the house into the ever-present woods, his parents being distracted by Laura in a hellion phase and a newborn Cora, and he gets himself lost. He doesn’t really think about it for a while, busy crunching leaves under his small boots and listening to the sounds of the forest, but after a while he starts to get hungry. The house is where food is, so he looks for it, but it’s gone, and then he calls for his mom, and there’s no answer. He’s not a child prone to panic, so he just starts walking in a new direction, still calling out, trusting with the faith of the very young that his parents will find him any minute now. 

They don’t, though. It starts to get dark, and he’s hungry in earnest now, and beginning to get scared. His voice is hoarse, and he’s tripped and fallen twice, scraping his hand on a log the second time. He doesn’t want to cry, but he can’t help the fat tears welling up in his eyes as he trudges onward. He just wants to go home, but he can’t seem to figure out how.

“Hey, kiddo.”

A voice speaks from beside him and he turns to look up at an old man, wiry strong but slightly stooped with age, his hair shock white and wild around his head. Derek takes his finger out of his mouth and ducks his head in shyness. “God, you’re just the same,” the man murmurs, almost to himself, then crouches down and takes Derek’s chin in his rough hand and tips it up to look at him. “You lost, son?”

Derek nods, squares his shoulders, and looks the man in the eyes like his father taught him. “Yes, sir. My name is Derek Hale, and I…” he has to look at his shoes again as his eyes betray him, “I can’t find my house.”

The hand that strokes the side of his face is infinitely gentle, and the man is smiling when Derek looks up again. His eyes are captivating, brown as the fallen leaves around them but with golden bursts in the middle, glowing like stars in the gathering dusk. 

“Christ, Der, you could have told me to find you sooner,” the man murmurs, and Derek frowns, but the man shakes his head before Derek can formulate an answer. “Don’t mind me, kid, I’m old. C’mon,” he stands up and holds out his hand, “let’s get you home.”

Derek hesitates, looking at the outstretched hand. “I’m not supposed to go anywhere with strangers,” he says finally, near tears again, because how is he supposed to get home if he can’t go anywhere with this man? He seems good, and Derek trusts him on some instinctive level he’s too young to question, but he promised Papa he would never, he  _ promised _ . 

The man laughs, a sharp bark of sound, and pulls a hand across his mobile face. “Strangers,” he says, his mouth twisting in half a smile. “Okay, well,” he turns his hand to the side and reaches it out so he can take Derek’s and shake it. “You’re Derek Hale. And I’m Czcibór.” He smiles kindly. “There. Now I’m not a stranger. Think that’ll work for you, kid?”

Derek thinks it over. It’s true; they’ve been introduced. The old man is new, but he’s not a stranger anymore. “Okay,” he says, and reaches out to take the hand offered him. “Do you know where my house is?”

“I know where it was, and that should be good enough,” Czcibór says, and Derek wants to ask him what he means, but suddenly he’s being swung up into the air and settled onto broad shoulders, and he loses the thought in the effort to hang on as they move through the darkening woods in a sure and steady direction, unwavering and swift.

\--

“Why do you live out here in the woods? Don’t you want to be in town with all the other people?”

Derek is seven now, and kicking at the rungs of the chair he’s sitting on, the mug of hot chocolate steaming in front of him. He regards it warily. He’s already burned his tongue on it once, but it smells really good, and he wants another taste.

“No, not really,” Czcibór says after a moment, and Derek likes that Czcibór seems to take all of his questions seriously. His parents sometimes laugh at him, and Laura likes to roll her eyes, but the old man always has time for him, always has an answer. “I’m happy out here. I used to live in town, but this is where I’ve lived for a long time, and it’s what feels like home.”

“But why here?”

“My husband liked it out here. He grew up in the woods, and he built this house for us when we got married.” 

“Your husband?” Derek asks in surprise, “where is he?” He looks around the small room as thought he might spot this mysterious stranger in a corner. There’s nowhere to hide, and he’s never seen any evidence of another person here before. He narrows his eyes. Maybe Czcibór is pulling his leg. 

Czcibór’s eyes twinkle. “He comes to visit every so often.” 

“I don’t believe you,” Derek declares, folding his arms. This is how adults act when they’re teasing him, and he doesn’t like it. He thought Czcibór was better than this. 

“Oh, no?” Czcibór leans over and ruffles his hair. “C’mere, kiddo, I’ll show you.” 

Intrigued against his will, Derek pushes his chair out and follows the old man into the next room. He’s never been into the back room of the cabin before, and he takes the opportunity to glance around him, soaking up the details. 

It’s a small room with a big window into the woods, the split log walls gleaming with sun. The bed under the window is big enough for two, but neatly made with an old red-and-white quilt. Two nightstands sit on either side of the bed, one with a lamp and a scattering of personal items in a chaotic pile that he can immediately identify as Czcibór’s own: a pocket knife, a battered paperback, some string, two half-used chapsticks, assorted coins and rubber bands and gum wrappers cascading at the foot of a dusty lamp. The other nightstand holds only two items: an old watch, and a double framed pair of photographs. 

Czcibór walks to the far side of the bed as Derek hangs in the doorway watching, picks the frame up, and waves Derek close, patting the side of the bed next to him. Derek sits, and Czcibór hands him the photos. 

He takes his time examining them. He can’t say why, but it feels like a moment of import, and he wants to make sure he catches every breath of it, every detail of what Czcibór is showing him. 

The photo on the left is of two men on what is clearly their wedding day: He can recognize Czcibór as a young man, his hair brown instead of white, but nearly as wild; his eyes laughing just like they do now; his assortment of freckles and beauty marks the same. Czcibór  is caught mid-word or mid-laugh, his face wrinkled up in a twist of sheer joy above the collar of his fancy suit, his eyes only for the man wrapped in his arms. The other man… Derek looks at him for a long moment. He’s only slightly taller than the young Czcibór, but he has more presence, more gravity. His hair is dark, his eyebrows menacing, and he’s clearly trying to look stern, but the rose tucked behind his ear combines with the twitch in the corner of his mouth to give him away. He’s got a hand planted on Czcibór’s hip, new ring gleaming on his fourth finger.

He turns to the other photo, politely ignoring the tremble in Czcibór’s hand where he holds the photos steady for Derek’s view. 

The second photo is of the same man, but is clearly taken much later, maybe when he is nearly as old as Czcibór is now, Derek thinks. The man’s hair has gone salt and pepper with grey, his face wrinkled in the corners by his eyes and mouth, but also in the planes of his forehead, traces of worry and anxiety marked into his skin. He looks sad, Derek thinks, but he’s smiling at the camera, his eyes entreating the viewer to come closer, to draw near. 

“You miss him,” Derek says, and it doesn’t come out like a question. 

“Every day,” Czcibór says, setting the frame back on the nightstand and letting his fingers linger for a long moment. Then he turns and smiles at Derek, and holds out his hand to lead him out of the room.

“Seeing you helps, though.”

\--

He’s about twelve when he starts seeing the man he assumes must be Czcibór’s son or nephew or something like that. At first he only catches glimpses of him through the woods on the way to Czcibór’s house, a tall, narrow man with dark hair kept short and a plaid shirt. Something about the way he moves leaves Derek’s mouth dry, with surprise or suspicion, he’s not sure. 

“Son?” Czcibór says blankly when Derek asks him about it over a game of dominoes. “No, we never had kids. Circumstances…” he waves his fingers distractedly as he places another domino. 

“Who is he then?” Derek studies the spread in front of him and his remaining pieces. “A nephew or something?”

“Who is who?”

“I saw a man today when I was on the way here,” Derek says, refocusing his attention on Czcibór. If there’s someone sneaking around in the woods, Czcibór should know about it, he might not be safe. “He was about your height, brown hair, plaid shirt.”

“How old?” Czcibór’s eyes are sharp now, in spite of the way his hand is dithering over the loose tiles. Derek used to think that Czcibór was just a silly old man, and he has no doubt that’s very much the impression that Czcibór intends to give. But in the years he’s been coming here, he’s learned there’s more to Czcibór than meets the eye, including a sharp set of wits that has tripped Derek up more than once.

“Maybe mid-twenties?” Derek screws up his face, thinking. “Early to mid-twenties, I guess. I didn’t get a good look.”

“Oh,” Czcibór relaxes. “That’s just my… nephew.” He shrugs back into his chair, making a show of biting his lip and frowning at the table between them.

“Your nephew,” Derek answers disbelievingly, taking a sip of his hot chocolate.

“Yeah,” Czcibór looks up at him with guileless amber eyes, “he’s in town visiting. Scouting out some land. He used to come here a lot when he was younger; I think he’s trying to find the right spot to settle.”

“So he might stay?” Derek doesn’t know what to think about the idea. His first reaction is jealousy, and he’s not proud of that, but he’s been the only person in Czcibór’s life for years now, and he’s never been good at sharing. His next reaction, though, is a guarded curiosity. There was something compelling in the younger man, the little Derek had seen of him. He doesn’t have a word for it, but it settles in his sternum, burning lightly at the thought of the man’s swift form moving through the trees.

“Might do.” Czcibór shrugs. “He’s not very sociable right now. Nasty break-up, his boyfriend ran away and left him, you know how those things go.”

Derek does not, in fact, know how those things go. “Mmm,” he says, and places a double six. 

“I wouldn’t recommend approaching him,” Czcibór says, and he’s staring at Derek a little too intently. “He’s not in a good place right now, and trying to deal with you might be too much for him. You get me?”

“Deal with me?” Derek feels a little hurt. He’s not hard to deal with, is he? He’s always polite, he tries hard to be obedient. His consternation must show in his expression, because Czcibór’s face softens immediately. 

“Hey, not like that.” Czcibór reaches over and taps a finger on Derek’s nose. “Just, he’s pretty solitary right now, and trying to talk to anyone is hard. And to a stranger… I don’t know. So, do me a favor, yeah? Just come and go from here, don’t go wandering in the woods for a few months, ok?”

“Yeah,” Derek says evenly, “okay.”

A few months. He can do that. 

\--

“Excuse me,” comes a voice from the other end of the hot pool, and Derek is so startled he slips and nearly falls on the slick rocks. “What the fuck are you doing here, kid?”

“Uhh…” Derek’s too busy staring to answer for a second. It’s Czcibór’s nephew, it has to be, because even with the steam rising from the hot springs into the cool morning air and obscuring the details of his features, the family resemblance is striking. Same huge dark eyes, same scattering of freckles. Dark hair instead of white, and sharper lines in his face, but it’s like he’s looking at a picture of Czcibór in his youth. He wonders briefly if this man’s parent is actually Czcibór’s twin. It would account for the striking similarity. “I’m… here to use the hot springs?”

The man twitches hard at the sound of Derek’s voice and looks up, his eyes widening, then closing as his mobile face goes through a series of unidentifiable emotions, then opening again, pinning Derek to the spot.

“Aren’t you a little young for that?” 

“For what?” Derek’s managed to settle himself into the shallower end of the natural pool, the sandy clay under his feet squishing, the smell of sulfur filling his nose. 

“To be using the hot springs,” the other man says, the eyeroll clear even through the clouds of steam.

“I’m almost thirteen,” Derek mumbles into the water in front of him. It’s not like he doesn’t know what people do up here, but it’s eight o’clock in the morning in the middle of a chilly June, he wasn’t exactly expecting to see anyone else. “It’s a public reserve; use at your own risk.”

Czcibór’s nephew just stares at him for a long moment, his face doing something complicated again that results in him submerging entirely for a long moment. Just as Derek’s starting to wonder if he needs to go over and fish the guy out, he comes bursting up through the water, shaking his head madly, spraying drops everywhere as he turns his back and pushes himself up onto the ledge, and… oh.

Derek doesn’t know where to look. It’s not that he’s never seen another guy naked before; there’s his dad, and his brother, and the guys in the locker room at school, but he has definitely never seen an adult he’s not related to naked before, and he just…

Czcibór’s nephew is like nothing Derek’s ever seen before, long lines sculpted out of pale skin, liberally dotted with marks and splotches, only adding to the otherworldly sense of him as he stands steaming in the morning air. Derek can see him better now that he’s up and out of the water, can see the length of his eyelashes where they’re dripping onto his flushed cheek, can see the way the water has stuck his hair to his head, to his body as it runs down between his shoulder blades, as it traces waterfalls down the narrow muscled calves. 

“Fine,” the man says, grabbing a towel and wrapping it angrily around his waist. “Enjoy your public reserve.”

“You don’t have to…” Derek starts, but the man’s already got his feet into his shoes, and is striding off into the woods, a bundle of clothes shoved awkwardly under his arm. 

_ Well, shit _ , Derek thinks. He understands, now, why the man didn’t want him there; public reserve or no, a twenty-something year old naked in the hot springs with a pre-teen is not a good look. Guilt settles into a pool in his stomach as he thinks about his promise to Czcibór to leave his nephew alone, to give him space. Derek couldn’t possibly have known that he would be here, he thinks, but still. He should have just turned and gone, not stood around and gawked like an idiot. 

He slides down in the water again and closes his eyes. He can see the outline of the man’s body in his mind’s eye, the way the morning light had lit up his skin, making him glow like old ivory. The way the water had run down his form, outlining the wiry muscle that clung to his long limbs. 

Derek’s hard before he realizes, and well, that’s informative. He’s never… not about a guy… not before, but. There’s no denying it. He feels his cheeks heat, and he looks around to make sure there’s still no one around, but the woods are empty and calm, alive with the sounds of birdsong and squirrels, but nothing else.

He thinks about taking his dick in his hand, really thinks about it, but it seems disrespectful, and he doesn’t think he could meet Czcibór’s eyes if he did, so he forces himself to relax, to lie back and think about his math test until his fingers have gone all pruney and he can climb out of the water with his swim trunks flat.

\--

He meets Stiles when Stiles is seven and Derek’s thirteen. Stiles is sitting on a bench outside the therapist’s office where Derek comes once a week to talk about nothing. He’s swinging his legs mindlessly, staring into the middle distance as tears stream unheeded down his face, letting them fall unchecked to splash on the linoleum. 

“Here,” Derek says, and shoves a clean handkerchief at him. Stiles just looks at him in confusion. “You’re crying.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, and takes it, mopping ineffectually at his face, smearing everything around more than cleaning it, Derek thinks. “Thanks.” He offers the hankie back. 

“No, no,” Derek says quickly, “you keep it. In case you need it.” He can see the tears welling up again already, and there’s something familiar about him, something Derek can’t place. It’s the eyes, he thinks, they remind him of someone. 

He settles down next to Stiles on the bench, taking out a book and pretending to read. Every few minutes, Stiles will absently swipe at his face again, but mostly the tears just fall, gravity pulling them to the floor, to his pants, to his shoes. 

After a while the therapist’s door opens, and it’s Derek’s turn. He walks in, and doesn’t look back.

Stiles is there again next week, still crying, but with his own handkerchief this time. Derek sits down next to him without really thinking about it. 

\--

"Czcibór?”

The man on the ladder turns, and Derek feels his face open in surprise. It’s Czcibór alright, or at least, he’s pretty sure it is, but he’s younger this time, maybe in his late fifties. His hair is greying at the temples, but still dark on top, and he has a beard liberally streaked with white. 

He’s  _ handsome _ , and it takes Derek aback for a moment, his mouth open dumbly until he closes it.

Czcibór scowls at him.

“No one calls me that.” He looks Derek over slowly. “Whaddya want, kid?”

“Um,” Derek says, shoving his hands into his jean pockets. He’s fifteen and growing too fast to stay in his clothes, and he’s suddenly acutely aware of how his jeans stop before the tops of his shoes, the way his wrists hang out of the ends of his sleeves. “Just passing through.”

“Just passing through,” Czcibór repeats back incredulously. There’s something in his face, something hard and bitter in his tone. Derek is reminded powerfully of his nephew, and the tight, sharp way he carried himself, the knife edge in his voice as he walked away. “Just passing through, but you know my name.”

“Lucky guess?” Derek ventures cautiously, for lack of anything better to say short of  _ “oh, yeah, I travel through time, and I know future-you, and that’s what he told me to call him when I was four years old” _ .

Czcibór the younger stares at him for a long moment, then throws his head back and laughs uproariously for a long, loud moment. Derek watches the movement of Czcibór’s throat, and holds his breath.

“Christ  _ almighty _ ,” Czcibór breathes eventually, “as if anyone, anywhere would pull that monstrosity of a name out of their ass as a guess, Jesus.” He wipes at his eyes, then looks Derek over again, a long, slow look that rises from his white sweatsocks to the top of his head. There’s something in his eyes, something resigned, and Derek can’t think what it can be.

“How old are you, Derek?”

“Fifteen,” Derek says, and, feeling bolder, steps closer to the ladder. Czcibór’s ever-present plaid shirt is hanging from a nail next to him, his bare arms corded and strong around the hammer he holds at the edge of the roof. 

“Fifteen,” Czcibór sighs. “Oh, to be fifteen again. Or, actually, not. Teenage hormones suck.”

“They do, sir,” Derek nods fervently, and Czcibór laughs again.

“Alright, teenager. Get over here and put that youthful energy to work.” Czcibór gestures to the bucket of shingles next to him and climbs a rung higher. 

\--

They spend the afternoon reshingling the south side of Czcibór’s house.

It’s not till that night when he’s home that Derek realizes that he’d never told Czcibór his own name.

\--

“You’ve never told me why you go there,” Stiles says casually, and Derek looks up from where he’s lying flat on his back on the rug next to Stiles’ bed. It’s Stiles’ eleventh birthday in a month, and Derek has been stealthily using his position on the floor to inspect Stiles’ comic book collection with an eye to picking up the latest issues Stiles hasn’t bought yet.

“Go where?” Derek asks, eyes still combing through the cataloging nightmare of Stiles’ bookshelf to try and identify the latest Hellboy. Would it really kill him to put issues of the same comic together? Yes, Derek supposes, it apparently would.

“To Counselor Marin’s.” He can hear Stiles flail in his position on the bed. “I mean, I go because of my mom, you’ve always known that.”

“You've never said it.”

“It’s pretty obvious,” Stiles says, and Derek smirks because he can hear the implied eye roll.

“It’s true, you’ve obviously needed help the whole time I’ve known you. Ow!” Derek rubs his arm and makes a note to short sheet Cora’s bed again in exchange for her having taught Stiles her patented knuckle-punch.

“Why, though?” Stiles asks again, thumping around on top of his bed doing something that will no doubt leave his covers a twisted mess. Putting up a new poster, maybe? Derek’s not sure. “You’re like, one of the most well-adjusted kids I know. For a  _ teenager _ , anyway,” he adds, and Derek snorts. 

“I told them I’m a time traveler, but no one believed me,” he says, “so now I go to therapy to make sure that I don’t go around just making shit up because I’m bored.”

“ _ Whoa _ ,” Stiles says reverentially, and Derek cracks his eyes open to see Stiles’ face peering at him in amazement over the side of the bed. “You’re a  _ time traveler _ ?? That’s so cool! What’s it like? Where do you go? How do you control it?” Stiles pauses for breath, then leans in urgently as another thought strikes him. “ _ Are you the Doctor _ ?”

Derek can’t help it, he busts up laughing, clutching his sides and rolling around on the floor. Stiles’  _ face _ , Christ on a cracker, nobody does bug-eyed wonder like Stiles. This, he thinks, is part of why he still hangs out with Stiles, even though at sixteen he should be spending his time with other high schoolers- there’s no artifice, no performance. Whatever Stiles thinks, he says; whatever he says, he means. With the exception of the occasional attempted white lie to his father about his homework or in an attempt to get the last donut, Stiles is an open book and Derek loves it. 

It’s this line of thought that sobers him. He’s unsure why he’s just blurted out the truth of what he does, what happens to him, to this ungainly, loudmouthed kid who is his best friend. It’s dangerous, it’s something he hasn’t said to anyone in nearly half his life, and he knew, or should have, that Stiles would believe every word.

Stiles leans down and punches him again. 

“Make with the talking, asshole. You _ time travel _ ? And you never  _ told  _ me?”

He looks betrayed, and, well, Derek guesses he can understand that. Stiles tells him everything, more than he tells his Dad, even, and they’re close. Derek… tells Stiles more than he tells anyone else, but he’s kept his secrets so long, he doesn’t know how to just..not.

“Why do you believe that nonsense? No one time travels.” He covers his face with his arm, hiding his eyes in the crook of his elbow and letting his hand fall to the floor. Stiles just pokes him in the ribs until he’s forced to uncover his face, so then he glares. It has no effect.

“I believe you because, one,” Stiles holds up a finger, “you’re not creative enough to just pull that out of your ass at the drop of a hat, and two,” Derek groans, and Stiles holds up a second finger, triumphant, “you have never bullshitted me, not once. So,  _ spill _ .”

Derek puts his arm back over his face, and Stiles lets it stay there. It’ll be easier to say this if he doesn’t have to look someone in the eyes, he thinks. He hasn’t… he hasn’t talked about this in so long. It feels wrong; he’s not supposed to do this. Is it dangerous? He wonders, suddenly, if he’s putting Stiles in some kind of harm’s way by telling him.

“You can’t say a word about this to  _ anyone _ , Stiles. I mean it.”

“My lips are sealed.” Derek moves his arm just enough to squint up at where Stiles is miming zipping his lips shut. 

“I’m serious,” Derek says, despairing. “You can’t just go babbling about this to your little fifth grade friends. Or your dad. Or anyone. I know you open mouth and insert foot, but…”

“Derek,” Stiles interrupts, and his face is suddenly hard and closed. “I can keep a secret.”

It’s not a look Derek’s seen on him before, and that’s… interesting. He nods slowly.

“Okay.”

\--

“You seriously don’t remember the first time?”

Stiles is bouncing along behind him, all knobby knees and huge brown eyes. 

“No, I told you, how would I?” Derek sighs. Maybe this was a bad idea, bringing Stiles out here. “The first time I remember it happening for sure was when I was four, but I can’t know if that was the first time, can I?”

“And you’re sure we’re not going to end up somewhere else, too?”

Derek represses a sigh. “I mean, I’m not  _ sure _ , but it’s never happened before. I only move times, not places.”

They step into the shade of the woods, the sound of insects calling softly reassuring around them. It’s mid-afternoon and hot, and Derek can feel the sweat on the back of his neck cooling as a soft breeze blows through the trees, rustling the leaves above them. 

“I don’t know if this will work,” he says, for the hundredth time, shaking his head. It’s been a month since he told Stiles about what he does, and he hasn’t had a moment’s peace since. He can’t actually say he regrets it, because it’s been just incredibly novel and honestly kind of validating to be able to talk about it to someone who doesn’t just think he’s crazy or a pathological liar, but. Stiles can be persistent, and single-minded, the result of which is this little field trip, an attempt to travel intentionally, and to take Stiles with him when he does.

“How does it happen?”

Derek shrugs. “It’s not something I notice. I don’t like, wave a wand, or say an incantation or anything. Just… I end up somewhere that’s different. That’s all.”

“No sparkles? No noise? No disorientation?”

Stiles has been reading up on everything he could find about time travel in the intervening weeks, and Derek thinks it’s gone to his head. 

“No,” he says, “and I’ve never intentionally tried to make it happen, either, so I don’t know if this will work.”

Stiles huffs out an annoyed breath. “You are the most boring, most unscientific…” he waves his arms wildly in the air between them, “how do you have something like this  _ happen  _ to you and not  _ ever  _ test it? Not try to figure out how it works, what you can do with it?”

Derek scowls at him, and Stiles just rolls his eyes and throws his hands up in resignation. 

“I just… it’s always been part of who I am. Would you test how long you can hold your breath, or whether you can intentionally dream?”

“ _ Yes _ ,” Stiles says, and okay, he deserves that one. Of course Stiles would. Stupid question.

Derek pauses at the edge of the trees and thinks for a moment. Maybe if he just concentrates on wanting to go to the little house, to see Czcibór again, maybe… that’s enough? He has a sinking feeling that Stiles is going to be disappointed by this little experiment, but he doesn’t know how to say no to Stiles, never has. So, here they are.

“Maybe…” Stiles sounds unsure of himself, and Derek looks over in surprise to see him reaching out a hand while biting his lip. “Maybe if we stick together?”

It’s not what he means to say, that much is clear. But his hand stays out there, hanging in the space between them, so Derek takes it in his larger one, feeling the way his baseball calluses rub against Stiles’ smaller fingers. It’s familiar, and reassuring, and Derek uses it to ground his nerves, taking a deep breath and stepping forward, Stiles hovering close at his side.

They enter the woods.

\--

He hasn’t told Stiles about Czcibór. He’s not sure why, really, other than that Stiles’ attention on the whole thing has been so overwhelming that he feels compelled to keep some things back, and that he’s spent so long with Czcibór being his own personal secret that he doesn’t know how to talk about the old man in the woods. It’s easy to talk about what downtown looks like when he’s accidentally seen it out of time, or what futuristic San Francisco looked like when he’d accidentally come unstuck on a family trip. (“The bridge was  _ hovering _ ?” “Yes, Stiles. It was the  _ future _ .”) Those things are like snapshots, like little YouTube videos, impersonal and exciting, and they’re easy to share. Czcibór… is personal. 

Nonetheless, when Stiles starts pestering Derek to take him somewhere, Czcibór’s cabin is the first place he thinks of. It’ll be weird, he guesses, if it works, but… he’ll deal. They’re the two most important friends in Derek’s life, they’ll figure it out.

“There’s nothing here,” Stiles says, his voice disappointed.

He’s right, Derek notes, the clearing is empty. It hasn’t worked.

“Sometimes there’s an old man who lives here,” he says, and shrugs. “I guess not today.”

“You mean not  _ now _ ,” Stiles answers, starting to pace around the small space, kicking at sapling trees. “He must be here  _ sometime _ , just not  _ this  _ time.”

Derek nods. Honestly, he’s never put as much thought into this whole time travelling paradox as Stiles has in the last few weeks, and some of it is starting to make his brain hurt. He can understand it all, he’s not stupid; he can follow the lines of science and logic, but… crossing them into the reality of his life is more challenging. He experiences his own life chronologically, and trying to think about how it’s not that things are appearing for him, but rather he’s appearing to them, is… weird.

“Here,” he says, and lets go of Stiles’ hand. “Let me try on my own for a sec.”

He’s not sure what he’s doing, but he steps forward, closing his eyes and concentrating, picturing the cabin in his mind as clearly as he can. He doesn’t feel anything special, but his suddenly his ears pop, and he opens his eyes to see what looks almost like an afterimage of Czcibór’s house in his vision, shimmering as he squints in concentration. He’d think it’s just a figment of his imagination, but then the door opens and he can see Czcibór come out looking perplexed. 

“Derek,” he hears, “what are you…oh.” Czcibór frowns, and waves a hand. His voice sounds like it’s coming from under water, from far away. “Go away, I don’t want visitors.”

It surprises Derek enough that he loses his concentration, blinks, and everything is as it was again; empty and quiet, save for Stiles who is gaping at him like a fish. 

“Whoa,” Stiles says slowly, and Derek scowls. He’s a little hurt, if he’s honest, Czcibór’s never shooed him away before like that. 

“What?” It’s too sharp, and he knows it the second it comes out of his mouth, but Stiles doesn’t seem to notice. 

“You went all blurry. Like you were here, but  _ not  _ here, too. It was weird. Could you see it? Was it there?”

“Kind of?” Derek rubs at his face, looking away from where Stiles is literally bouncing in place with excitement. “I could see it, but I couldn’t get there. Not all the way.”

“Coooooooool,” Stiles whines, wriggling side to side before running once around the clearing and then coming to a stop about ten feet in front of Derek. “Was it right here? The house?”

“Yeah,” he says, watching Stiles uproot small bush. “What are you doing?”

“The old man, is he past or future?”

“I… guess he’s past?” Derek’s honestly not sure. Czcibór dresses and lives like he could be any number of places in time, to be honest. His house is modest, his food is normal, he speaks with a standard accent. Now that Derek thinks about it, it doesn’t make that much sense, actually: if Czcibór is from the past, there should be the remains of his cabin here, even if he’s gone, but the clearing is empty, entirely. No foundation, no ruined chimney. And if Czcibór were old enough for all trace of his appearance to have been removed, then he would have had to have lived long enough ago that he would seem stranger to Derek. Which means...“or actually, maybe not? Maybe he hasn’t moved here yet.”

Derek feels a little unsettled at the thought. He’s always thought of Czcibór as an old man, but if he’s in the future, and he hasn’t moved here yet, if his husband hasn’t built the house yet, then that means that Czcibór is out there somewhere, living his life. Living his  _ young  _ life. Hell, Derek might even have met him, and not known it.

“Well, if he’s future, and if he’s gonna build a house here, we may as well start clearing some brush for him.” 

It’s a point, Derek thinks, and one he likes. Maybe he did help Czcibór know where to settle down. If Czcibór is out there somewhere, and not here yet, maybe when he and his husband come here, maybe seeing the clearing all ready for them is part of what makes them settle here, part of what brings him into Derek’s life.

It’s a nice thought, so Derek grabs the nearest piece of underbrush and starts to pull.

\---

“What’re you doin’?”

Stiles is newly thirteen, and he makes Derek feel like a dirty old man some days, today being one of them. He’s all growth-spurt legs hanging out of his red track shorts and dark buzzed head above his huge eyes, and Derek… Derek has known for a while that his feelings for Stiles go beyond deep friendship, but that doesn’t change the facts that, firstly, who knows what Stiles’ opinion on that will be, and second, Derek is still the better part of six years older than Stiles, and at eighteen and a half, has absolutely no business looking at his best friend in the ways he wants to. It doesn’t matter that the physical attraction is the result of the personal attraction, or that Derek would never, would  _ never _ … he shakes his head. He’s just got no call even thinking about the future with the kind of age difference they’ve got.

Derek turns back to the scattering of boards in front of him. 

“I was looking through some maps down at the forest service office a few weeks ago,” he says, and kicks his toolbag a little further out of the way. “Turns out this clearing is right on the edge of my family’s land.

“It’s not part of the preserve?” Stiles’ face is surprised, and now he’s crouching down next to Derek’s feet on the ground, elbowing Derek aside to peer at the rough sketch Derek has staked out in front of him. “I always thought this was public land..”

“Me too,” Derek says, and reaches for the longest board. “But I guess it’s not.”

“Are you sure? Your family’s ‘No Trespassing’ signs are further in, and not having this would make the preserve a weird shape, too.” Stiles is staring suspiciously up at him like he’s judging Derek’s ability to do research, which he probably is, but Derek just shrugs.

“A great uncle of mine seems to have bought it a hundred years ago, and tacked it on to the rest of our property.”

And wasn’t that the discovery, Derek thinks, finding the delicate  _ D. Hale _ signature on the documents down at the courthouse, his own handwriting matured, but unmistakable. It must have been future him, in spite of all the things wrong with that sentence, because he’s the first D. Hale since the 1700s, and Beacon Hills didn’t even exist for property plots to be bought and sold before about 1850. When does he do it, Derek wonders, and how does he convince his ancestors that he’s their relative and this piece of land was a reasonable gift, and how does he convince them to then tack it on to the family property with a legally binding non-sellable clause on it? Hell, how does he prove his identity to the bank? And, last but not least,  _ why  _ does future-him buy the very piece of land where Czcibór’s house will be,?

“Hand me that bag of nails, will you?” He gestures, and Stiles tosses it at him, his face open and excited. 

“What are we building?” He’s nearly vibrating, squinting at the drawing and chewing on a hangnail. “A shed?”

He’s been doing some thinking lately, not only about Czcibór’s house, but about the man himself. Derek’s known him nearly his whole life, but never once has Czcibór had company when Derek is over. Nor does he mention any friends or extended family. As far as he can tell, Czcibór lives alone, on property that apparently Derek will buy for him, with nothing more than two photos and no last name. Further, the name Derek has always called him is one his younger self instinctively rejected. And isn’t that a funny thing? 

Nameless man lives alone in the woods in a house his absentee husband built for him on land owned by the child who visits him. He’s been slow to give it any attention, Derek thinks, because Czcibór has always been an accepted part of his life, and that seems like a real convenience in itself, but Derek’s not a fool. He’s paying attention now. 

“A Tardis,” he says, and Stiles laughs, his face scrunching up in joy, and that  _ look _ , Christ, Derek wants to see it for the rest of his life. Somehow, he’s starting to wonder if maybe he will.

“Dereeekkkk,” Stiles groans theatrically, pointing at the sketch, “it’s not a Tardis. It’s not even a square!”

“Bigger on the inside?” Derek tries, and laughs as Stiles shoves at him, letting himself be knocked over so Stiles can pound on his back in mock frustration.

“I thought we’d start small,” Derek says finally, when his ribs hurt from laughing, “but I was thinking maybe we could build a house.”

\--

Czcibór’s house isn’t in the clearing this time when he breaks through the line of trees. Instead, there’s a small shed-like structure, the door standing open, and Stiles leaning in the doorway, his back to Derek. 

Derek approaches cautiously. It’s must be him, but it can’t be the present time because there’s nothing standing in this clearing yet, and Stiles is taller, broader through the shoulder. He thinks maybe they’re roughly the same age now, and that’s… strange to think about.

“Stiles?” he ventures, and the man turns to face him. 

It’s definitely Stiles, but Derek was wrong about his age; this Stiles must be closer to his late twenties, a good decade and some change older than Derek is himself. He’s dressed as he always is, plaid shirt and jeans, t-shirt untucked and hair dark and unruly, longer than Derek’s ever seen it. 

“Derek?” Stiles says in surprise, his face sliding through surprise, then wariness, then a certain melancholy as he looks Derek up and down. “Oh. I see.”

“Um. Hey.” Derek says awkwardly, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I guess you weren’t expecting...me.” He gestures at himself, suddenly grateful that he did actually tell Stiles about his trips, because he can’t imagine trying to explain this away. 

“No,” Stiles says, and purses his lips. “You’re… not around right now,” he says finally, and Derek doesn’t know what to say to that, doesn’t really know how to parse the unhappy undertones he can hear in Stiles’ voice.

“I’m sorry,” he says, without really knowing why.

There’s a flash of anger across Stiles’ face, but it rinses away quickly. 

“You always are,” Stiles answers, with a twisted smile. “I’d rather you were less sorry and more here.”

Derek bites his lip. “I’ll try,” he says at last, because he doesn’t know what else to say to this older, unhappy version of his closest friend. 

“You will,” Stiles agrees, “and it won’t help. You’re never here when I need you. You’re always leaving.”

“I’m here now,” Derek says without thinking, and Stiles looks at him again, his dark eyes nearly glowing in the afternoon sun.

“Yeah, you are,” Stiles says, “I suppose that counts for something.” He steps into the cabin and out of the doorway, his back to Derek as he disappears into the shadows. “Come on in, then.”

\--

“I’m gonna miss you when you go,” Stiles says, and Derek looks over in the dark to where he knows Stiles is stretched out on his sleeping bag. The moon is full, and the light of it filters in through the skylight of their little clubhouse, but it’s not enough to make out Stiles’ expression. “I can’t believe I have to go through high school without you.”

“You’ll be fine,” Derek says, and rolls onto his side, listening as Stiles shuffles around on the nylon. “We’ve never been in school together before; you can’t miss what you’ve never had.” He reaches his hand out to run his fingers over Stiles’ short-cropped hair. 

“You won’t be around, though,” Stiles says morosely, and Derek flicks him on the ear. “ _ Ow _ , what the hell?”

“I told you, I’ll come back and visit. At least one weekend a month, maybe more if my classes aren’t too busy.”

Stiles heaves a gusty sigh, and Derek rolls his eyes in the dark. “It won’t be the same. And your family will want to spend time with you, so we’ll get maybe an hour or two, and I won’t be able to talk to you about stuff, and..”

“Do phones not exist? Have I been hallucinating the internet all these years?” He pokes Stiles in the ribs, making him squirm. “I guess we’ll just have to rely on the Pony Express.”

“Jesus, Derek, could you  _ be  _ more of a dick?”

Derek pulls his hand back in surprise. There’s an actual waver in Stiles’ voice, and he feels instantly contrite. 

“Hey,” he says quietly, “hey, I’m sorry, I was just trying to make you feel better.”

There’s no response, but he can hear the rough, regular inhale of Stiles’ breath. 

He scoots his sleeping bag over, and throws an arm over Stiles. They used to lay like this when they were younger, when Stiles was still more of a little kid. After his mom died, Stiles stayed over at Derek’s house every time the Sheriff had a night shift, and Stiles would climb into bed with him, stiff at first, but relaxing against the heat of Derek’s body as he eventually fell asleep. They’d wake up entwined, Stiles clutching at Derek and usually drooling on his shoulder, Derek with an arm wrapped tight around him.

They haven’t done it as much since Derek got into high school, less since Stiles hit puberty, and Derek’s been even more circumspect since he realized what Stiles means to him, not wanting to run the risk of jeopardizing what they have. But there’s no denying the rightness of it, he thinks, pulling Stiles up under his chin. Like this, it can still be easy, still innocent. 

“I know,” Stiles says finally, “I know you’re not trying to be mean, but. You don’t know what it’s like. You have a big family. You’ve got both parents, and three siblings, and your aunt and uncle and cousins all right there. That’s not…” Stiles gives a ragged exhale, and shifts impatiently in Derek’s hold. “Even before my mom died, it was just the three of us. And then it’s just me and my dad. And… and you.”

Derek pulls him in tight, rocking him gently back and forth. It’s true, he realizes, he tends to think of his time with Stiles as a relief from being surrounded by others, as a safe space, and he thinks of Stiles’ regard for him at least somewhat as the kind of hero worship a younger kid has for an older one. But that’s doing them both a disservice. He’s as much a part of Stiles’ world these days as his dad is, and the seven years they’ve been friends is literally half of Stiles’ life. 

“I’m sorry,” he breathes into the crown of Stiles’ head. “I’m going to miss you, too.”

“No you won’t,” Stiles says, and swipes angrily at his eyes. “You’re going to college. You’re gonna have cool teachers and fun roommates and hot girls throwing themselves at you. You’re gonna forget all about me.”

“Never.” Derek squeezes Stiles hard. “I will never forget you. I don’t care how long I’m gone, or where I am, I will never forget you.”

“Sure,” Stiles mumbles, and Derek pushes him to arms length and draws them both upright, bracing Stiles with his arm until they’re both fully sitting, facing each other in the small space. 

“ _ Listen _ ,” Derek says, his hand still on Stiles’ arm, unable to bring himself to let go. “Don’t you think if I wanted to let you go that I could have done it years ago? When I started high school, or when I started driving, or when I graduated?”

“Yeah, but…”

“But nothing. Where am I, Stiles?”

  
“Here,” it’s mumbled, but he can hear that the tone of Stiles’ voice is moving from agonized to embarrassed. 

“ _ Here _ ,” Derek repeats, and pokes Stiles in the chest with the finger of his free hand. “With  _ you _ .”

Stiles captures Derek’s finger in his fist and holds it tight. He keeps his head ducked, his face hidden completely in the shadows as the moonlight glints off the dark bristle of his hair.

“But you’ve never been far away before,” he says quietly, “how can you know? How can you know that you won’t find a new best friend? Or a girlfriend who takes all your attention? I mean, how could you tell her no?” Stiles flings out his arm in frustration, inadvertently taking Derek’s finger with him.

“I know,” Derek says, “because I know you.” He reclaims his hand and uses it to tip Stiles’ chin up. “And I know that there is no one else in the world like you.” He takes a deep breath, staring at the stubborn set of Stiles’ mouth, the shadowed anxiety in his eyes. “And I know what you mean to me. And I know myself well enough to know that there is no way, no. way. that could ever change.”

The silence is loud between them as his teeth close around his final word, and Derek has just enough time to think that he’s given far too much away before Stiles’ arms are tight around his neck and he’s being knocked backward with the momentum of a body hitting his. He manages to catch himself on his hands so that they don’t both just go toppling flat to the floor, but in the process utterly fails to stop the mouth that lands on his own.

He responds before he’s conscious of it, his lips pressing back against Stiles’, breath blown out through his nose in surprise, the feel of Stiles’ warm mouth on his just as unspeakably intoxicating as he always expected it would be. 

Stiles makes a shocked, pleased noise that jolts Derek to his senses, and he pushes himself upright so he can get his hands on Stiles’ shoulders and force him gently back. It’s one of the hardest things he’s ever done, but Stiles is barely old enough to be thinking about kissing people his own age, let alone someone who’s six years older. 

“Stiles, no. We can’t.” He’s proud of himself for how calmly he says it, for how he keeps his voice firm, no hint of regret. What he doesn’t expect is the look of horror that creeps across Stiles’ face, transforming it from delighted to mortified. A hand comes up to cover that mouth, and it breaks Derek’s heart a little bit to see it.

“Oh,  _ God _ . Derek, ugh, I’m so…” Stiles buries his face in his hands and scrubs them frantically back and forth over his cheeks as though he can erase what just happened. “Jesus, I’m so sorry. You must be so grossed out. I can’t believe I... It’s just. I’ve liked you for  _ so  _ long, and you’re going away, and maybe this is my last chance to. Please. Can we just. Forget this ever happened?”

He looks up hopefully, barely able to meet Derek’s eyes, but when he does, he stills, and Derek can only imagine what’s written across his own visage. His hands are still clutching at Stiles’ shoulders, and he can’t bring himself to let go.

“Stiles,” Derek says carefully, because what? Stiles has liked him for a long time? “I’m a lot older than you.”

Stiles’ eye-roll is instant and thorough. “ _ Please _ ,” he says, “like that’s ever mattered to us.”

He has a point, Derek thinks, but. “It should matter, for something like this,” he says instead. 

“Why?” Stiles says, and Derek can see his stubbornness engaging. He sighs internally.

“For one thing, because you deserve the chance to spend the next few years figuring out who and what you like with people your own age,” he holds up a finger to forestall Stiles’ protest, “you  _ do _ . And also because I’m an adult now.”

“I don’t care.” Stiles says, folding his arms. 

“Pretty sure your dad would,” Derek answers, and yep, there’s the slowly dawning resignation as Stiles connects with reality again. Derek can feel his heart break just a little.

“But,” Stiles starts, and Derek lays his finger across Stiles’ lips. 

“No,” he says again, and then, because he can’t help himself, “not yet.”

Stiles’ subsequent smile is blinding, even in the dark.

\--

“What are you doing here?”

Derek stands on the doorstep, hand still raised from knocking. He opens, then closes his mouth.

“Speak up, kid. I’m old and tired. What do you want?”

“I...thought I’d come see you?”

Czcibór stares at him for a long minute. He’s older than the last time Derek saw him, significantly so. More than the nine months that Derek’s been away at college. His back is bent now, and he’s gone from wiry to just plain thin, and his hand where it grips at the doorframe is twisted like the roots of a tree.

“Where’ve you been, kid?” Czcibór finally steps back and holds the door open for Derek to walk through. The house is musty, and Derek gets the sense that Czcibór is spending most of his time commuting between his bedroom and his chair at the dining table. The rest of the main room seems to have fallen into disuse, piles of old dishes stacked on an end table, dust coating the top of the wall clock.

“I’ve been at college,” Derek answers, shrugging off his jacket to hang it on the coat tree like he always has. “Remember, I told you I was going to be gone for a little while?”

“A little while,” Czcibór grumbles as he starts the kettle. “Eight years is not a little while.”

Derek freezes, hand still on his jacket. Eight years? That’s longer than he’d thought. Czcibór must be well into his eighties now, and Derek is suddenly wracked with guilt for leaving him alone so long.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and means it deeply, rounding the table to put a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “I didn’t realize it had been so long.”

Czcibór waves a hand irritably. “I know,” he says, and Derek sometimes wonders if he does, actually, know all about what goes on with Derek and his visits. Czcibór has never said so, but sometimes, the way he looks at Derek, the way he keeps his house carefully devoid of dates, of calendars, of modern technology… if Derek’s right about his suspicions, then yes, he would know. “I know you didn’t mean anything by it, it was just…” he sighs quietly, and Derek’s heart breaks with the loneliness of it. “It was just a long time.

“I’m here now,” Derek says softly, and waits. 

Czcibór looks him over for a long moment, then visibly deflates. 

“You are,” he says, “and I’ve never been able to tell you no. Get in here.” He turns, and walks slowly from the door. “Come pour the water. I’m going to sit down.”

\--

Derek makes a point, after that, to visit Czcibór every time he comes home from college. He tells his family he has a date, tells Stiles that he has to do homework, and drives off to the preserve where he hides his car in the bushes and walks into the dark woods alone. 

It works, for a while, but he’s never had any real success controlling when he goes, and when he shows up in February for his monthly visit he’s clearly off. The house is cold, and empty. The shingles have ripped off, and a window is broken. He checks, just to be sure; opening the door and going through the house, looking for any sign that Czcibór has gone away, or worse, gotten injured here alone, but there’s nothing. Just the cold wind whipping through the dusty old house, ruffling the papers on the tables, whistling through the gaps in the roof. The house is empty, and has been for a long time, and Derek sits on the rain-stained mattress of Czcibór’s bed in silence and stares at the wall as tears run down his face. 

He hugs Stiles tight when he sees him, feeling the warmth of him pressed into Derek’s chest, and tries not to think that he’s seen Czcibór for the last time.

\--

Derek tries again the next day, before he goes back to school- he’s going to get back late, but he doesn’t care, he needs to try and see if he can go back, if Czcibór will be there. He says goodbye to his family, loads his laundry into the car and makes a U-turn when he gets to the highway, heading back to the Preserve the long way so that no one’s likely to see him heading somewhere other than where he’s supposed to be. 

He’s lucky, he thinks at first; the house has a light on, and smoke is curling up from the chimney in the wan winter afternoon light. He runs up to the house, knocking hard on the door as his breath blows white clouds into the freezing air. 

“Czcibór,” he shouts, “it’s me!”

The door is obstinate in its silence. 

“Czcibór,” he tries again, knocking louder, in case the old man’s asleep, “let me in!”

Finally the door creaks open, one dark brown eye peering out of the crack.    
  
“Go away,” a voice says, “I don’t want any!”

“It’s me,” Derek says impatiently, “it’s Derek, open the door.”

“Derek,” the voice repeats, and the door flings open. It’s the oldest Derek’s ever seen Czcibór, and it hits him hard. He must be in his 90’s, Derek thinks, and he’s frail, the thin husk of his body belying the fire in his luminous eyes. 

“Get. Out.” Czcibór says through gritted teeth, and Derek steps back involuntarily. “You’ve been gone too long, you hear me? Too  _ fucking  _ long. I don’t want to see you.”

“Czcibór…” he chokes out, and shoves his foot in the way so the door can’t slam, “wait…”

“ _ Wait _ ,” the old man spits, “How dare you. How  _ dare  _ you.” He opens the door wide and slaps Derek across the face with a bony hand. “All I have ever  _ done  _ in my life is  _ wait _ . For  _ you _ , Derek. I am done with waiting. And I am done with  _ you _ .”

Derek raises a hand to his cheek, the heat of the mark on his face blooming under his palm.

“Czcibór,” he says again, helplessly, then “ _ Stiles _ ,” he whispers, and the old man’s face cracks like glass.

“Get out of my sight,” Czcibór gasps hoarsely, “just  _ go _ .”

Derek goes.

\--

He’s driving home from college on his way back for the weekend when he gets passed by the fire trucks, but he doesn’t think anything of it until he’s closer. Not until he realizes that he’s far enough down his road that there’s only one house left. He floors it after that, pulls up to his own driveway less than three minutes later, but it’s too late.

He’s too late.

He remembers the lights flashing in the darkness, red/blue, red/blue, red/blue. The occasional accent of white breaks in as more headlights appear, or a fire truck double parks. 

He remembers the smell of it. 

He will never forget the smell of it.

“Son,” John Stilinski’s voice says to him, infinitely sorrowful, endlessly compassionate, “I’m so sorry.”

Derek nods. His words are gone, burned up. Turned to ash like his heart. 

“They took your sister and your uncle to the hospital,” the Sheriff says gently, “your sister only had minor injuries, but your uncle will need immediate surgery.”

Derek nods again to show understanding, trying not to throw up at the words “your sister.”  _ Sister _ , he thinks,  _ your sister. Sister, singular. Only one.  _

“Do you need a ride to the hospital?”

John’s voice is asking him a question, so Derek forces himself to tune back in. 

“No,” he says, “I have my car.”

“Are you alright to drive?” The sheriff squints at him. “Why don’t I have one of my deputies take you.”

“ _ No _ ,” Derek says, more forcefully than he intends, “no. I’ll drive.”

John gives him a long look, one that Derek knows means that he’ll be checking up on him. “You and Laura will stay with us,” he says, and Derek doesn’t have the heart or a reason to argue with him, so he just drops his head, and lets the sheriff pull him into a long, hard hug. He can feel the man’s arms trembling around him, can hear the little puffs of his breath in Derek’s ear, but all he feels is cold, his fingers clammy and numb.

The sheriff releases him, and points him to the car. “Go see your sister. Text me when you get there.”

Derek nods one last time. He still has the keys clutched in his hand, cutting into the flesh of his fingers. He forces himself to loosen his grip, to turn his back on the still-blazing fire. Containment, he heard them say as they opened the door, not abatement. Recovery, not rescue. 

He turns and runs into the woods.

\--

He doesn’t bother knocking, just turns the knob and walks in, and somehow he’s not surprised even in the depths of what he recognizes as shock to find that Czcibór is waiting up for him, back in his sixties again and seated at a much cleaner table, hale and hearty with white-streaked hair and a face stricken with grief. 

“What day is it,” Derek asks, and Czcibór’s face twists painfully as he stands up. 

“November 29th,” Czcibór says, and walks toward him.

Derek steps back.

“Year?”

Czcibór hesitates, then sighs. “It’s 2058.”

“I tell you this, don’t I,” Derek says. He can feel the tears running down his face, but he ignores them. They don’t matter. Nothing matters. “It’s how you know to be up right now, waiting for me. It’s how you know how to find me when I’m lost in the woods as a kid. It’s how you…  _ fuck _ , you don’t have any nephews. That was  _ you  _ in the woods, wasn’t it?”

Czcibór drops his hands and folds resignedly into his chair, looking desperately at Derek, searching his face. 

“Yes,” he says finally. “You tell me everything. Eventually.”

“Eventually,” Derek breathes, “You told me to call you Czcibór so that I wouldn’t figure it out. It’s taken me so long. How has it taken me so long?”

“It  _ is  _ my name,” Stiles says apologetically, “it’s not my fault you never asked. And when you tell me, you tell me that that’s what you called me. Who am I to mess with the time stream? I told you to call me what you told me I tell you to call me.” His hands flap tightly in the air. “An infinite loop. Derek,”

“How bad is it,” Derek interrupts. “The fire. How bad is it.”

“Derek....,” Stiles starts, and Derek can’t imagine how he’s been so blind all this time. Stiles’ facial expressions have been one of the main constants in his entire life. It makes him angry

“Tell me how bad it is!” Derek shouts, and Stiles’ face falls even as he holds out his arms.

“Come here,” he says instead, but Derek steps back again.

“ _ Tell me _ .”

Stiles bites his lip. “Laura is fine,” he says at last and Derek feels the world spin around him.

“Everyone else…” he whispers, and doesn’t resist as Czcibór’s arms come around him at last.

“Laura is fine,” Stiles whispers, “I’m so sorry, Derek. I’m so goddamn sorry.”

They stand there a long, long, time as Stiles cries.

\-- 

It’s Laura’s idea to go, but he doesn’t fight it. Peter’s in a vegetative state, and there’s nothing left here for either of them, except… But Stiles isn’t old enough for Derek to cling to him, to depend on him the way he wants to. Stiles is still a child, still not-quite-fourteen, and Derek is an adult who has had his whole life ripped away, and he can’t put that on Stiles, that kind of grief, that kind of pain. He can’t. 

Laura had graduated from college that December, and Derek takes incompletes in all his spring courses, because he can’t bring himself to leave the only surviving and conscious member of his family, and she can’t leave Beacon Hills until everything is settled with the funerals, the house, with the investigation, with Peter’s care. 

They stay with the Stilinskis, Derek on an air mattress in Stiles’ room, Laura in the tiny guest room, until the end of June. Derek would love it, he thinks, all this time with Stiles, if he were able to feel anything through the unrelenting fog of numbness that has descended over him. He wakes in a grey haze, goes through the daily motions of life. He bathes, brushes his teeth. Eats, sleeps. Sometimes he comes to himself after a moment, not sure where he is or what he was doing, when the shower water has run frigid, or the sheriff shouts down the stairs to  _ close the refrigerator door already, Stiles _ . He speaks when spoken to, and he thinks most of what he says makes sense. 

He doesn’t dream. He doesn’t travel.

\--

He tries to travel, every night for the first several weeks.  _ If only he could get back to the right night, _ he thinks,  _ if only he could warn someone _ . Of what, he’s not sure- the preliminary reports are inconclusive as to the cause. It could have been anything from faulty wiring to a knocked over candle to Aunt Rachel not being careful enough with her cigarette butts. Still, if he could get there that evening, get in earlier, maybe he could get people out faster, call 911 sooner.

Or maybe he’d just get killed himself, Stiles points out, when he figures out what Derek is doing. Maybe this is an immovable event. After all, if Czcibór knew it had happened, knew the result of it, wouldn’t that mean he’s unsuccessful in changing it? 

They argue back and forth, Stiles’ face white and angry as Derek leaves every night to try again, but in the end it doesn’t matter. He’s never been able to control when he goes, and that hasn’t changed. He sees everything from mammoths to desolate wastes, Russian trappers to rocket ships, but can’t get back to when he needs to be.

\--

They sneak out before dawn, neither of them up to facing a Stilinski, even to say goodbye. It’s cowardly, Derek knows it, but he can’t bring himself to care. It’s for the best, he thinks- this will give Stiles some space to grow up on his own terms, and will give Derek time to heal, and then, someday… and then…

They leave a note on the table, thanking the sheriff for his hospitality. Laura’s perfect handwriting details their need to get out, to start fresh, to find who they are, now that they’re alone. They promise to keep in touch.

Derek flings his phone out the window of the car as they cross the Yuba not long after dawn. Laura looks at him sideways, but doesn’t say a word. He’ll get another after a while, he thinks, and he has Laura and Stiles’ numbers memorized anyway. He just… he just can’t for a bit.

\--

They plan to be gone for a few months. They stay gone for five years. 

\--

One day he wakes up and heads into the woods for a walk. The woods here in upstate New York are different from the ones he grew up in. These trees are damp, the underbrush thicker and darker, the sounds more muffled by the humid air. 

He’s not paying much attention to where he’s going, secure in the knowledge that this is all their property, and he can navigate well enough by the sun that he’s not going to get lost. The trail he’s following turns into a deer track, and then into nothing, and suddenly he’s in a familiar clearing and he turns around to look at his surroundings in shock because while he’s traveled hundreds and hundreds of years in either direction, he has never, ever, changed locations before. 

It’s still there when he finishes his circuit, though, Czcibór’s house, standing silent and still right in front of him. He pauses for a long moment, listening to the complete silence that has fallen on the woods around him. Something is off, he can tell, but he can’t help but approach the door as he has a hundred times before.

He knocks, but there’s no answer, and the door squeaks on its hinge when he finally turns the knob and pushes it open. The house is cold and dim, no lights lit, no fire going. There’s a plate of dead food abandoned on the table, a blanket slumped in a pile on the floor next to Czcibór’s chair. He can’t shake the sense of foreboding that wraps around him, clutching in his chest with a tight hand, and he hurries as he makes his way back to the bedroom at the far end of the house. 

The door to the room is open, but the blinds are drawn, and Derek has to let his eyes adjust to the low light as he steps across the threshold. He’s convinced suddenly that he’s too late, that there’s no one left here for him, and his voice dies in his throat as he makes out a shape in the bed. 

“Czcibór?” he whispers, stepping forward, his heart in his throat, his pulse echoing in his ears. He makes his way to the bed, listening desperately for a sound, a breath, a voice. He can see the line of the body in the bed now, long and thin, a wasted face on a white pillowcase, red and white quilt half fallen off the bed because Stiles never can sleep neatly. 

“Derek,” a voice murmurs back out of the gloom, “you’re here.”

The voice is faint, but full of wonder, and Derek falls to his knees beside the bed, reaching out to grasp the bony hand that stretches toward him. He can feel that there are tears rolling down his face, but all he can think is,  _ not too late. Not too late _ .

“I’m here,” he says, and presses the hand to his face. A finger reaches up to trace the shape of his eyebrow, down the side of his nose. “I’m sorry it took me so long. I’m sorry,” he pauses, gathers his breath and reaches up to wrap his arms around Czcibór’s fragile body. “I’m sorry I left you alone.”

“You couldn’t help it,” Stiles whispers, “you’ve never been able to. It’s not your fault, Derek.” He hauls himself halfway up, eyes searching Derek’s face, “it’s never been your fault. You have to know that. Sometimes,” he breaks off to cough, and Derek holds him tightly as the shudders wrack his wiry frame, “sometimes I will hate you for it, but I never blame you. Do you understand?”

“No,” Derek says, shaking his head against Czcibór’s grip, “no, I don’t understand. I’m not done, I don’t want you to leave.”

“This is the truth of us, Derek,” Czcibór says, his body sliding lax in Derek’s arms, “we leave each other again and again and again. But listen- we always come back.”

“No,” Derek says again, the word choking him as he shakes, “Czcibór.  _ Stiles _ , don’t...” 

He can’t finish the thought, but it doesn’t matter. There is no reply.

\--

He spends himself in a burst of grief, letting it wash over him like a wave and pull him under before crashing onto shore and dissipating, and when he’s done he feels calmer than he has in years. He wipes his face on his shirt and raises the blinds, then curls Czcibór on his side and  wraps him carefully in the red and white quilt. He recognizes it, now that he thinks about it, a family heirloom from the old country on Stiles’ mother’s side. 

He wishes he could bury Stiles with the sheriff, wherever he is, or with Derek’s own family, but he doesn’t want to wander far from the clearing and get lost in physical or temporal location, so he digs a grave behind the back of the house, wide enough and deep. It takes him all afternoon, and when he’s done, his hands are blistered and bleeding, his shoulders and back one giant ache. His whole self feels raw, but also focused in a way he hasn’t the whole time they’ve been gone. He knows now what he needs to do.

But first he gathers Stiles in his arms, his body never as large as Derek himself but shrunken now and light with the lack of breath, and carries him to the edge of the hole. He lowers himself in, then hefts his bundle, settling it carefully at the bottom, covering it gently with branches he’s cut from trees he now knows he must have planted decades ago: Live oak. Bay laurel. Madrone. Willow.

He climbs out and sits for a long moment, but the sun is fading, and he needs to get home, so he picks up the shovel and begins.

\--

They leave for California within the month.

\--

“You died, you know.”

Stiles’ voice is almost casual. If Derek didn’t know him so well, he’d pass right over the brittle undercurrent that threads through his tone. Instead, he pauses where he is in the doorway to the Stilinski house, hands in his pockets and shoulders curled defensively.

“Stiles,” he says cautiously.

“I hadn’t seen you in over a year, hadn’t heard from you in nine and a half months. I didn’t know if you were dead or just a lying son of a bitch who left me.”

“Stiles…,” he says again, stepping through the door. He knew it would be hard, coming back, knew there was no making things the way they were again. But somehow he didn’t expect the physical pain that’s clutching in his chest at the flatness of Stiles’ voice, the immobility of his face. 

“And then you turn up, on my literal fucking doorstep, Derek, so thank you so much for that, only it’s you as an old man, you as a  _ dying  _ old man, Derek.” Stiles’ fragile facade splinters and his hands come up to stab at the air. “I hid you for days, Derek. You refused to go to the hospital, refused to let me talk to my dad. I didn’t know what to do. You were delirious, lost in your timelines. All you would say was that you were here with me, and you’d never leave again.”

He’s close now, nearly toe to toe with Derek, and all Derek can think is how much older Stiles looks, how much the five years Derek’s been gone have changed him. He’s as tall as Derek now, is staring him eye to eye, and his hair has grown out into the wild mess that Derek’s always associated with Czcibór. He’s a grown-up, even if only just, and he’s furious, and he’s the most beautiful thing Derek’s seen in his whole life.

“And do you know what you did then?” Stiles’ voice drops, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides as he stares into Derek’s face from a foot away.

“I left?” Derek whispers, forcing himself not to drop his eyes, to back away.

The punch is hard and fast, he doesn’t know that he could have blocked it even if he’d been trying, and it’s definitely going to leave a bruise.

“You goddamn  _ left  _ me  _ again _ , you complete and utter asshole, only this time you left me with a dead  _ fucking  _ body.” Stiles’ voice cracks hard, and he’s crying as he’s shaking out his hand. “I  _ buried  _ you, you selfish bastard. It took me six hours to dig your fucking grave, and then I had to roll your cold, dead body into it. I had to listen to the sound you made when you hit the bottom, Derek, do you know what that’s like?”

“Yes,” Derek says, and hauls Stiles into his arms, clutching him to his chest as Stiles alternately thumps at him and clings to his shirt.

“I had to shovel the dirt onto you, Derek. I held you in my arms as you took your last  _ fucking  _ breath,” Stiles chokes out, “and then I put you in the fucking ground, and I thought that was the last I was ever going to see of you in my life.”

“I’m  _ sorry _ ,” Derek whispers, holding Stiles so tight his muscles are cramping. Stiles is sobbing noisily into his shoulder, and Derek is swaying them unconsciously, crooning under his breath. “Stiles, I’m  _ so  _ sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t know I would…”

“You fucking knew when you left, Derek. You at least chose that much,” Stiles says angrily, pushing back suddenly to hold Derek at arm’s length. “You chose to disappear without so much as saying goodbye.”

It’s breaking Derek’s heart to have Stiles not against him, but he nods. “I did. I was wrong.” He holds Stiles’ gaze. “I’m sorry, Stiles. I’m so  _ fucking  _ sorry.”

He pulls, and Stiles thuds into him again, neck against Derek’s shoulder in a way that’s still surprising, his body nothing like it was when Derek could fit Stiles under his chin. 

“It’s not enough,” Stiles mumbles, rubbing his face hard into Derek’s neck, but his arms are hard around Derek’s torso, fingers clutching at his belt loops. “Sorry is not enough.”

“I know,” Derek says helplessly, holding Stiles so tight he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to let go. “I know.”

\--

“So he’s just...I’ve just… always been there?”

“Yeah,” Derek says, tracing the shape of Stiles’ face with a finger, across his eyebrow and down the line of his nose. “I’ve always wondered when I told you, but I guess the answer is now.” He chuckles. 

“When did you figure out that Czcibór is me?”

Derek shifts in the bed, pushing the sheet down to his waist in the warm, humid air, and rolling onto his back. Stiles comes with him, curling into his side, and Derek can’t bring himself to push him away, even if it is way too hot to cuddle.

“I think I first started wondering about it when I was maybe fifteen and you were nine? I thought you were just related to him though for a long time. Like maybe he was an uncle, or a distant cousin.” He shrugs. “I guess because I grew up knowing him, I took him for granted. I didn’t stop to think about whether I knew him some other way.”

“And he… I… never let on?”

“No,” Derek shakes his head, and wraps his arm around Stiles where he lies. The moon is full, and shining in the window of Stiles’ bedroom, highlighting the milky paleness of his skin. “At some point I realized that he was way too chill with how I came and went, but again… I didn’t think about it too hard.”

“Am I always old?”

“No,” Derek shakes his head. “I’ve seen you when you’re younger, maybe in your forties, and also in your twenties, but I didn’t know it was you then, either.” He goes still abruptly, remembering the look on the younger Czcibór’s face.

“What?” Stiles breathes, “What is it?”

“We break up at some point,” Derek says reluctantly, and instinctively pulls Stiles close to him.

“No, we don’t,” Stiles answers immediately, “why would we do that? And besides, you already said that Czcibór is married when you know him.”

“We do,” Derek says, his fingers clutching a little too hard into Stiles’ side, but unable to relax. “I don’t know why, but we do.” He breathes out roughly. “You hate it. It hurts you.”

“Hey,” Stiles says, getting a hand on Derek’s face and turning it to look at him, “whatever happens, I still love you. And I forgive you. Now, and then.”

“You don’t,” Derek says, “not for a while, anyway.” 

“But I do. In the end. Because no matter what happens, you always come back to me. Right?”

Derek rolls them over and buries his face in Stiles’ neck. 

“Right,” he says, and tries to believe it.

\--

The first time he’s gone after they marry, he’s gone for what seems like a year to him, but is apparently five to Stiles. It’s an unexpected and unwelcome first, that the length of time he’s gone doesn’t match the length of time he spent, and the hurt look in Stiles’ eyes when he comes in the door undoes him, no matter how hard Stiles tries to hide it. He stays put for eight months after that, but just as he’s starting to relax, he loses another year. It’s never predictable, and it’s never controllable, and he stops apologizing, because it irritates Stiles to hear him say the words. 

They’ve been married for thirteen years for Stiles and seven for Derek, and he keeps a journal so that he can try to sort the times he sees things out of order, because he hates it, he  _ hates  _ it, when he tells Stiles something he’s not supposed to know yet, or when he doesn’t remember something that’s supposed to have already happened. He turns up with flowers for their ninth anniversary only to find out that was three and a half years ago, but then he buys Stiles a ring for their tenth, and gives it to him for their sixth Christmas instead. 

Stiles gets him a watch, and laughs till he cries. 

They fight. 

They fight a lot. 

Derek never expected this. They never fought as kids, and he never fought with Czcibór, though maybe he would have if he hadn’t been a child. But now… he turns up late, and Stiles is angry with him for being gone too long, or he stays too long in one place, and they start to drive each other up the walls because they’re not really that used to sharing space for that long. 

“You should leave me,” Derek says finally one hot summer night, and means it. “You deserve better than this.”

“How dare you,” Stiles says to him turning to him from where he’s wrist deep in dishwater, and it’s the angriest Derek thinks he’s ever heard him. “How  _ dare  _ you push me away. I have been in this from the day I met you, and I will be goddamned before I let  _ anyone _ , even you, tell me to get out.”

“Leave me,” Derek says again, holding Stiles’ gaze, “Stop this. Stop waiting. Stop living alone and wasting your life on someone who can’t even stay with you.”

“You son of a bitch,” Stiles breathes, “stop  _ waiting _ ? I’ve spent my whole life waiting for you. How  _ dare  _ you tell me to stop.” He pulls his hands from the soapy water and stomps out, not even bothering to dry them.

The door slams, and Derek lets his head fall into his hands in silent agony. Stiles won’t go far, he knows. He never does, always afraid that Derek will disappear while he’s gone. He sleeps wrapped around Derek, arms and legs entwined, an unconscious bid to clutch them together in the face of a universe that insistently pulls them apart, again and again and again.

It doesn’t work. Entwined or not, Derek disappears. 

\--

“You’re going more frequently,” Stiles says to him when he comes in the door. There’s no accusation in his tone, just simple statement of fact. 

Derek takes the hat from his head and settles it on the top of the coat tree, fishing a folded up piece of paper out of his pocket as he hangs up his coat. He can see the grey in Stiles’ hair from the doorway this time, and he needs to gather himself before he can look at him again.

“Yes,” he says finally. “And I’m staying everywhere else less long. I think…”

“Entropy,” Stiles says, standing as Derek comes toward him. “You’re becoming more unstuck in time.” 

“I guess,” Derek says, and shrugs, then wraps his arms tight around Stiles, holding on as Stiles clutches back. Who knows how long they’ll have together this time. Each visit becomes more and more precious, the fighting and talking less, the holding and touching more. “I did finally answer this question, though,” he says, and holds out the paper.

“What’s this?” Stiles takes it curiously, and carefully unfolds it. He fishes reading glasses out of his shirt pocket, and that’s new, Derek thinks, but he kind of likes it. They make Stiles look smarter, more distinguished, and while he’s always enjoyed watching Stiles take down anyone who underestimated him, he can also enjoy seeing him like this. “The land?” Stiles pulls the glasses off and laughs aloud, his mouth open and eyes squeezed shut. “Finally! I always wondered when you did this.”

“Me too,” Derek grins, “but now it’s ours. Or, rather, it’s been ours for a hundred and some years, but now it’s real? Or…”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, “or whatever,” and kisses him. 

 

 

_ Epilogue _

\--

“...in this time and all the rest?” Laura says, quirking an eyebrow as she raises her glass of champagne. “Interesting addition.”

Derek shrugs. “Inside joke,” he says, using a finger to tug at the bowtie tight around his neck. “At least we didn’t go the full-on ‘write your own vows’ route.”

Laura shudders, and reaches over to tuck a rose behind his ear. “God, I still haven’t recovered from Aunt Christine’s wedding, and that was twenty years ago. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for sparing me.”

“You’re welcome,” Derek smiles magnanimously, and turns his head as he feels someone sneak in under his arm. “Husband,” he says, and Stiles tips his head back, laughing with delight. 

“Gotcha!” John Stilinski declares, waving a camera and laughing as Stiles’ face turns mock annoyed. “This one’s a keeper!”

“Laura, cut my dad off!” Stiles gestures imperiously, and Laura tips her head as though she can’t hear Stiles over the noise of the band and the celebrations. She reaches for the champagne bottle at her elbow, turning to the sheriff and starting to pour. 

“I’m sorry, what was that? I think your son said to top you off, sir. Please, let me help.”

John tips his glass in gratitude, and takes her picture with one hand as she smiles winningly at him. “Good family you married into, Stiles. I like this new daughter-in-law of mine!”

“Dad, that’s not how it… oh, never mind.” Stiles throws up his hands in despair. “Fine. Well, my husband and I are going to go do husbandy things. Because we’re husbands now.”

“Not in front of the kids,” the sheriff admonishes, and Laura laughs and clinks her glass to his as Stiles rolls his eyes. Derek gets a hand up the back of Stiles’ jacket and hooks a couple fingers into his cumberbund, pulling him willingly backward and away, taking advantage of the band kicking into a new number to get Stiles off to the edge of the crowd. 

“What’s up?” Stiles asks, and it takes Derek’s breath away just to look at him, just to see his face and know that this is it, that his whole life in every direction, every moment, has been leading up to this, so he kisses Stiles first, long and gentle, because they have all the time and no time, but he refuses to be rushed.

“Here,” Derek says when they pull apart, and fishes a small cardboard gift box out of his pocket. He holds it out on his palm, and Stiles takes it carefully, eyes shining with excitement. “I got you something.”

The evening light glints off the brand new ring on Stiles’ finger as he takes it, lifting the lid.

“What is it?” he asks, reaching in to pull out a single nail. He raises his eyes to Derek’s, brow wrinkling in confusion.

“I thought,” Derek says, dragging Stiles close by his jacket lapels until their foreheads rest together, taking a moment to treasure the fact that they are breathing the same air, “I thought I might build you a house.”

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilery tag warnings: the deaths from old age are (meant to be) at least a bit upsetting, because they're upsetting to the characters. That said, they're handled lovingly, and are appropriate (I think) to the story. There's no violence.
> 
> Many thanks to baronvonchop and the_deep_magic for the encouragement and feedback! It is very much appreciated. 
> 
> This one kind of came upon me in a fit, and I don't know that it's quite as polished as I'd like, but I also don't know that fiddling with it further is going to help, so, here we are. 
> 
> The title is a quote from an incredible [Marian Call song called Time Traveler](https://mariancall.bandcamp.com/track/time-traveler) that was actually written for Doctor Who, but I think it works either way. Do yourself a favor and got listen to everything on that album about eighteen times.


End file.
